Say What You Will
by SpuffySwan
Summary: Molly moves into 221B Baker Street after breaking up with Tom. Tom becomes very VERY angry. Set after The Sign of Three, slightly AU. Rated -M- for later chapters.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's note: This is my first published Sherlolly story. I have no beta, so I apologize if anything is grammatically incorrect or seemingly redundant. I hope you enjoy it! And, of course, I do not own Sherlock or any of its characters. **

The clock read 11:35 pm as Molly Hooper's heels clicked down the hallway of St. Bart's Hospital, making her way to the locker room to change into her scrubs.

"Shit…" she said as she stared into the nearly empty contents of her locker, recalling wearing her last pair of clean scrubs to Tom's last week after getting Mr. Tuttle's innards slopped down her front. She would have to borrow some over-sized ones from the hospital that would probably smell of moldy rags.

As she started removing her jewelry, she stopped as she reached for her engagement ring. A pain sprung in her chest as she looked down at her naked left hand, recalling the night's events prior to stepping through St. Bart's doors. She swallowed the lump forming in her throat and quickly pushed the memories aside.

_'Not right now, Molly.' _She thought soothingly.

After changing out of her dress and into the borrowed scrubs, she shut her locker and stopped to assess herself in the mirror. Her hair was still pinned perfectly into curls on top of her head, her makeup still looked flawless, but the scrubs engulfed her and hung loosely around the shoulders. When she saw her pert nipples briefly poking through the fabric as she moved, she was immediately grateful the scrubs didn't accentuate her curves. Not that scrubs were ever form-fitting or appealing, but it was nice to have the extra fabric hide the fact that she was bra-less. Though, it being almost midnight, she was sure she it wouldn't be a problem.

…..

She grabbed the police report Lestrade left on her desk and stepped into the morgue as she read the contents aloud. "Kathleen Morrison, 5'2", found in the bath around 5 pm with longitudinal cuts along the wrist. Bruises were present on the neck and shoulders, Signs of struggle. Possible homicide." Molly continued reading the report as she walked towards the autopsy table.

"Alright, Mrs. Morrison. Let's find out what really happened to you." With a deep breath, she slipped on her gloves and began to remove the plastic.

"Normally I'd say good evening, and then go on and on about how it's ridiculous to tell a dead body good evening when they're dead." She removed the bag completely and grabbed her camera. Click. "And then I'd go on about how I _always_ say how ridiculous it is, and how none of my conversations seem original to you lot."

Click. Click. Click.

"Though, I guess it's hard to come up with different conversation pieces when you're speaking to someone without active neurons to vocalize their opinions." Click. Click.

"Someone's chatty tonight".

Molly jumped and turned around to meet her intruder as the camera dropped from her hand and fell to the floor. She was met with a cool, blue gaze and curly brown hair.

"Sherlock." She said while holding her chest to catch her breath. "W—what on earth are you doing here?"

"Just came to borrow some supplies." Sherlock said matter-of-factly as he walked towards her and picked up the camera, blowing on the imaginary dust before handing it back to her.

"How did you know I'd be here?" Molly said still trying to calm the heart threatening to explode from her chest.

Sherlock flinched, looking noticeably offended by the question. "It's my eighth sense."

Molly didn't bat an eye at his sarcasm and resumed taking pictures of the body. "Sherlock, while I think it's lovely you came in here to steal some body parts, I'm quite busy with Mrs. Morrison here. So if you don't mind."

Sherlock looked at her quizzically—_hair pinned up, makeup done, borrowed scrubs, pair of old gym shoes she kept in her locker with no socks, pursed lips, no bra, at the morgue at midnight—conclusion, working to get mind off of a particular bad date night with Tom…no bra. _

"Molly—"

"Sherlock!" Molly snapped, knowing that he was deducing her, and not feeling in the mood to hear his conclusions. "I'm busy. Please. Just—leave me be." She was on the verge of tears when she quickly turned her back to him.

Sherlock reflexively brought his hand up to comfort her, but stopped midway, unsure if in doing so he'd anger her further. He observed her silent figure for a moment, and then walked out of the morgue with his brows furrowed.

…

By the time Molly was done examining the corpse the wall clock read 2:55 am. She discarded her gloves and exited the room to drop off the report to her office, but was startled again when she saw Sherlock sitting in her chair with his feet propped up on her desk, his fingers steepled below his chin.

"Oh for fuck sakes…" Molly muttered on her breath. "Sherlock! What the bloody hell are you still doing here? Didn't I ask you to leave?"

Sherlock brought his feet to the ground and popped up from Molly's chair. "Nope!" He said enthusiastically. "I believe your words were 'leave me be'. And seeing as how YOU entered this office where _I _am currently residing, I'm assuming your request is now retracted." He walked around the desk and then leaned up against it with his arms folded, his face softening. "Molly, tell me what's wrong."

Molly folded her arms defiantly and avoided his piercing gaze, knowing he was deducing, or had already deduced, what each movement or out of place hair meant. She tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear and returned her arms to their folded position. "Are we really going to play this game, Sherlock? You already know."

"Was it you or was it him?"

"Do I even want to ask how you know?"

Sherlock raised his eyebrow impatiently. "You. Or. Him?"

Molly paused. "Me. It was—me." She finally met his eyes to gage his reaction. She could tell by his silence that he was thinking about what to say. He was doing that a lot lately; biting his tongue.

"Today was your anniversary."

"Wait…how did you-?"

"It's written on your calendar." He said as he directed her gaze with a quick jerk of his head.

"Oh." She walked over to where the calendar hung and removed it quickly, knowing she had written every important date with Tom over the months to come. She stood at the wall, staring down at the date, October 17th. She had put a heart over the "I" in anniversary.

"Do you…want to talk about it, Molly?" Sherlock asked hesitantly as he walked towards her, her back still facing him.

Molly turned around quickly and almost fell over as she bumped into Sherlock. She grabbed onto his shoulders to steady herself. "I'm sorry!"

"Nope nope, my fault." Sherlock's gaze never wavered. He was always doing that to her. Reading her. Observing her. _Deducing_ her. She couldn't say she minded all that much. Over the weeks since he had been back, she had gotten better at becoming impervious to his ice blue eyes, but with him being so close, she felt her stomach doing somersaults, and her mind became a cacophony of words reminiscent of farm animal noises.

"I—um." Molly stared up at him, speechless. _Speechless._ The somersaults turned into a simmering furnace that boiled internally at that word. Speechless. Mousy Molly Hooper, they used to call her. The hopeless blubbering, lovelorn pathologist around Sherlock. She knew he was unattainable, and yet, here he was, being concerned for her. Giving her "the look". She knew deep down, though, that no matter how their relationship progressed, or how nice he was to her, he would forever be the man she would always love but never have. Her butterflies pissed her off, so much so that she couldn't contain the fury that blossomed in her chest any longer. Her fists clenched at her sides and she pushed passed Sherlock in a huff. "Why do you always do this to me?!"

Sherlock's brow furrowed, looking confused. "Why do I do _what_, exactly?"

"You—you come back and you're all _nice _to me." Molly started pacing, her voice becoming increasingly louder and her arms becoming more animated. "Bringing me on cases with you. Kissing me on the cheek. Telling me how I _deserve_ to be happy and how I'm the 'one who mattered the most'! Showing up here in the middle of the night to 'borrow' supplies and sticking around here to make sure I'm okay! You're SHERLOCK BLOODY HOLMES, YOU'RE NOT _SUPPOSED _TO BE NICE! You were only supposed to be nice in my fantasies, because I _knew _you were unattainable in reality—"

"Wait, fantasies?" Sherlock said, interrupting Molly's rapid train of thought. She stopped in her tracks and turned her head to face him, her cheeks blushing furiously. She stared at him, her mouth agape, trying to formulate a quick response, but her mind was drawing a blank. She had just told Sherlock she _fantasized_ about him.

"Molly Hooper. Do you _fantasize_ about me?" Sherlock started towards her, a smile creeping up on his lips.

Molly brought her hand up and covered her face. "Oh god. Oh god. I have to—I have to go." She rushed out of the room and ran to her locker to quickly grab her things. She turned the dial on her lock, but she couldn't remember her combination and pounded on the locker in frustration, taking a deep breath to try and recall the numbers.

"36-1-33." Sherlock said from behind her. "Krypton, Hydrogen, and Arsenic, your favorite elements of the periodic table below 39."

Molly entered the numbers into her combination lock and pulled. It clicked open. He knew her combination. She wasn't sure if she was flattered that he knew, or upset that she was so predictable. But she _did _know she was being an ass. "Thanks." She said solemnly.

She heard Sherlock's sharp intake of breath from behind her. "You don't have to go, you know." He said finally, releasing the air from his lungs.

"I was headed home anyway, Sherlock." She said as she grabbed her dress, jacket, and heels from her locker and turned to look at him, giving him a half smile. "Thank you for your concern. But I'll be fine. And…sorry for going off on you like that. It's just been—" She swallowed a lump forming in her throat. "—it's just been a rough day, is all."

Sherlock nodded his head in acknowledgement. "May I say something?"

Molly nodded her head.

Sherlock paused to gather his thoughts. A very, _very_ long pause. "Molly…I was an utter dick to you before my _fake_ death.. But you…for whatever reason, you were always so kind and forgiving." Sherlock looked down at his feet as he moved them side to side. "I'm sorry, this—this isn't easy for me. _Sentimentality_." He muttered the last word under his breath and ran his fingers through his hair, taking a deep breath.

Molly smiled and bit her lip to keep from giggling at how uncomfortable Sherlock looked.

"I'm nice because—because you're my… _friend_, Molly. And I owe you so much for being there for me when you had every reason _not_ to be. There aren't a lot of people I care to be around. In fact, I can count all of the people I find tolerable on one hand. But you…I s'pose you're one of them. Obviously, you're one of them."

Molly's eyes welled up with tears, and before Sherlock could say anything further, she dropped the contents in her arms and met him within two strides, throwing her arms around his neck. He stumbled back a bit in surprise but returned the hug when he gained his footing, patting her on the back for reassurance. Because that's what you did to reassure the ones you cared about.

When she pulled away, her arms were still around his neck with tears streaming down her face. She reached up on the very tips of her toes and planted a kiss on his cheek before gathering her things and retreating to the restroom.

Sherlock stood in place, warmth springing into his chest. He puffed it out, feeling proud of himself for saying the right things and _meaning_ them. There was something about the honesty that was freeing somehow. But mostly, he knew Molly needed to hear it. He knew his pathologist was hurting, and he knew his words would lift her spirits. She deserved to feel happy. And he knew that _he_ could give that to her.

When Molly exited the restroom with all of her curls unpinned and falling around her bare shoulders, dressed in a strapless, lacy gown with a slit that hiked halfway up her thigh, and wearing a pair of strappy black heels, the warmth in Sherlock's chest ventured south, causing the muscle to twitch . He noticed her makeup was touched up, indicating she was conscious of her appearance around him. _'Good sign' _he thought arrogantly, followed up quickly with a mental kick for thinking that way.

He cleared his throat. "Interesting choice of attire for a morgue."

Molly rolled her eyes. "My date was just a few blocks away. I didn't go home to change, and came here because I thought I could use a distraction."

"I know." Sherlock said while thinking _'I could distract you' _but quickly deleting that impulse.

Molly put her jacket on and pulled out her phone to call for a cab service. She noticed 11 missed calls and 11 voicemails from Tom. She hovered over the "ignore" prompt for a moment, but ultimately decided she wasn't ready to hear Tom's voice just yet, and proceeded with ignoring him. She dialed the number for a cab instead.

"Share a cab?" Sherlock asked as she hung up

"I'd be delighted." Molly said. Sherlock reached out and offered his arm to her, which she accepted without hesitation.

He was a perfect gentleman, opening all of Molly's doors for her and helping her into the car. She couldn't help but feel the butterflies again, assaulting her insides relentlessly. But the fluttering excitement quickly turned into nausea when the cab driver asked for their destination. She didn't have her own place anymore since moving into Tom's six months ago. She couldn't go back there. Not tonight. She panicked.

"Miss, where to?" The cab driver asked again impatiently.

"Umm—where's the nearest—"

"221B Baker Street." Sherlock said finally. Molly looked over at him quizzically. "John has moved out and is with Mary, so I have a spare bedroom you can stay in for now…until you get everything sorted, of course." He explained, fidgeting with his hands and looking out the window.

Molly just stared and marveled at the man seated next to her. She always knew there was more to Sherlock than his sturdy exterior. She had seen glimpses of it before. Hell, she had seen lingering moments of it. But this, this was different. _He _was different. His tone, his body movements, everything seemed softer somehow.

"Sherlock."

"Hmmm?" Sherlock replied, still staring out the window.

"Thank you."

"No thanks necessary, Molly. Just returning the favor. Because that's what _friends_ do." He kept emphasizing the word "friend".

"Thanks all the same." She reached over and gave Sherlock's knee a squeeze. He turned slowly to look at the hand placed on his leg, then up at Molly. She was staring out her window, her forehead against the glass, the profile of her face illuminated by the street lamps, and silent tears streaming down her cheeks. He looked down at Molly's hand, and before he could think about all the reasons why such displays of affection were beneath him, he placed his hand on Molly's and returned the squeeze.

….

"So. This is, or rather, _was_ John's room." Sherlock said, standing in the doorway of John's old bedroom. Molly walked in and took a look around as she removed her jacket. The room was bare, save for the queen sized bed, a dresser and a nightstand with a lamp. She sat on the mattress and slowly ran her hand along the top, testing the material beneath her fingers.

"Excuse me one moment." Sherlock said as he exited the room.

Molly heard him shuffling around the apartment, until he finally returned with a pile of bedding.

"Here." He said, slightly out of breath, and talking at a rapid pace. "Here are the bedtime necessities. Sheets a blanket a pillow some pajamas they're my pajamas so they may be a bit big but I've never worn them and there's a tie on the bottoms to you know cinch up the waste."

Molly stood up and grabbed the pile from his hands. "Thank you."

"Of course." Sherlock said more slowly. Molly began to make her bed, but he remained unmoved from the doorway.

"Sherlock." Molly said finally after several moments of silence, slipping on the fitted sheet beneath the mattress.

"Hmmm?" Sherlock replied with a quick shake of his head, as if awoken from a trance.

"I can take it from here. You can get some rest, if you'd like. I'll be fine." Molly pulled on the sheet to smooth out the lumps.

"Oh. Right." Sherlock said as he grabbed the door knob to her bedroom to shut the door. "Good night, then."

"Good night, Sherlock. And thank you."

Sherlock nodded his head and shut the door, retreating to his own bedroom and shutting _his_ door rapidly behind him. Realizing he was holding his breath, he released the air from his lungs in one, long drawn out sigh. Molly was here. In his apartment. Spending the night. For possibly many nights. She would see him being…Sherlock. Not the brilliant consulting detective with the long coat and perfect hair. But the man beneath it all. He wondered if she would still fantasize about him when she found her own place. And for the first time in…maybe ever...he pondered about what it meant that he cared.

…


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's note: Hooray! Someone offered to be my beta. I didn't want to wait to post this chapter, though, so while it didn't get a second set of eyes, I hope it's still enjoyable. Hopefully from here on out, all chapters will be beta'd and perfected. **

**Thank you for all of your lovely reviews. It keeps the creative juices flowing! **

**Just a warning, this chapter starts getting intense with a lot of foul language. So if you're sensitive to that type of thing, a) turn back now!, and b) This is rated -M-, so perhaps you shouldn't be reading stories with this rating anyway. I'm just saying! :)**

JOHN. TEXT ME ASAP. -SH

John was startled awake as the chimes from his phone alerted him of a received text. He switched his phone to vibrate and attempted to go back to sleep.

STOP IGNORING ME. THIS IS IMPORTANT. –SH

John heard the vibration from his phone and groaned. It could only be one person texting him at this hour.

Mary rolled over. "Sherlock?" she asked wearily.

John grunted his affirmation and reached for his phone. Sure enough, Sherlock's name was displayed on his screen with 2 received messages. Not wanting to disturb the precious sleep his pregnant wife was trying to get, he rolled out of bed and put his robe on, retreating to the couch in the living room.

THIS BETTER BE IMPORTANT. IT'S 4 BLOODY AM. WHAT? –JW

I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO DO. –SH

WHY DON'T YOU CALL ME? –JW

NO. NO CALLING. JUST TEXT. DON'T WANT HER TO HEAR ME. –SH

WHO? WHO DON'T YOU WANT TO HEAR YOU? –JW

MOLLY – SH

MOLLY HOOPER? –JW

YES. –SH

John's mind reeled at the possibilities. He surprised himself at the surge of excitement he felt about the prospect of Sherlock and Molly. Together. Alone. At his apartment.

SHERLOCK. WHAT IS MOLLY HOOPER DOING THERE? –JW

He didn't want to assume. He needed to _know_.

There was no response.

John waited impatiently.

SHERLOCK? –JW

Still nothing.

"Everything alright, love?" Mary asked sleepily as she made her way over to the couch where John sat, curling up next to him as she laid her head on his shoulder.

John couldn't formulate a response, his mouth hung open, _trying _to get a word out, but instead, he just started laughing.

"What's so funny?" Mary asked while yawning. John just handed her his phone, with the text messages on display.

Mary's eyes went wide. "But—"

"Yep. I know." John said with a big grin on his face.

"Molly Hooper….and Sherlock Holmes?" Mary asked.

"Apparently."

Mary started laughing. "Well it's about time!"

John looked at her quizzically. "What do you mean?"

"Oh come on, John. It's been so obvious."

"From Molly, yes. But I would have _never_ thought that Sherlock—"

"John. He is your best friend, and you couldn't see it?"

"Sherlock doesn't _date_, Mary."

"So?"

"Soooo, Sherlock doesn't have the um….the um…" John struggled to find the right words to describe the detective, and instead used his hands to animate his train of thought. "You know what I'm saying."

Mary gave him a blank look. "No. Can't say as though I do."

John paused, carefully choosing his wording. "He doesn't _do_ what normal guys do to attract their interests."

"Really? Hmmm." Mary raised her eyebrow and tapped her finger against her chin, feigning contemplation. "You don't think he tries to amplify his strengths to be more appealing? Or stare _forlornly_ across the room as the person he loves is affectionate with another man? Or rather, be nice and pleasant to the one person who holds his affections after years of being a cock? Tell me, John, from your accounts, who was the _first_ person you saw Sherlock apologize to?"

John would never forget that night. "Molly. It was Molly."

"Uh-huh, and tell me, and I'm sorry for bringing this up, dear, but it's important to my point." Mary explained while gently touching his knee, as if soothing him before the blow. "Who did he turn to to help him fake his death?"

A proverbial light bulb shined through John's face as he marinated on the questions and answers laid out before him. "Huh…" He thought back to every encounter he had with Sherlock and Molly since Sherlock's return. Molly was the _only_ person Sherlock had been consistently pleasant with since he'd been back. The only person he went _out _of his way to be nice to. Sherlock was _soft_ around Molly. And Sherlock was never soft with _anyone_.

"John, remember how you were when you first met me?"

John chuckled sardonically and scratched the back of his neck. "I was a complete ass to everyone."

"Right. You weren't outwardly rude, mostly just dismissive and contemptuous of everyone and everything that moved."

"And yet you saw through it, somehow." John recalled, being overly tender with his voice.

"When I first started working at your practice, I saw the sadness in your eyes. I knew why you were angry. I mean, everyone knew, it was all over the news. But, I made it a personal mission of mine to make you smile again. And I still won't forget the first time it happened."

"Nor will I. That cock Walter Harris. He was never happy about anything. And on this particularly day, I was pretty sure he was possessed by Satan himself. But you, you helped me calm him down." John smiled at the memory. "To be honest, I can't even remember what he was upset about, because he was _always _upset. But I remember you. I remember how you dazzled him with your charm, and by the end of it all, he was laughing and shaking my hand. Something I had _never _seen him do before."

"And you smiled. Over at me, then over at him, then over at me again, this look of total disbelief on your face."

John nodded his head. "I had this epiphany. If _Walter Harris_ could find something to smile about…."

"Right. You asked me out that day. And I knew. I knew right then and there that things were going to be different." Mary grabbed John's hand. "And just like I knew with you, I know Sherlock had that same kind of epiphany with Molly."

"When?"

"I don't know, John. But whenever or whatever it was, it was their point of no return. And I know, _I just know_, that things are going to be different between them from here on out."

….

_Crash._

Sherlock put down his phone and went running from his bedroom to the source of the shattering noise in the kitchen. He turned on the light and was met with a startled, bare-legged Molly Hooper looking back at him with a broken teacup strewn about her feet.

"I'm really sorry about that, Sherlock!" Molly explained quickly, her voice slightly hoarse. "I'm like a bull in a china shop. I will replace it, I promise!"

"Don't move!" Sherlock said as he rushed out of the apartment. "Mrs. Hudson!" Molly could hear him yelling as he made his way down the stairs. She cringed at his volume, knowing it was a little early in the morning to be shouting for his downstairs neighbor. Moments later she heard him rushing back up the stairs, appearing with a broom and dustpan in hand.

"You don't own a broom?" Molly asked incredulously.

"Why would I need one when Mrs. Hudson has one?" Sherlock said soberly as he bent down to sweep away the broken cup. He glanced up and blushed as he realized he could see Molly's underwear from his vantage point. He quickly averted his eyes but could still make out the lacy pink outline in his peripheral.

Molly followed Sherlock's line of sight and gasped as it dawned on her how_ little_ she was wearing. She hugged Sherlock's pajama top more tightly around her legs and bent one knee slightly in front of the other to retain a modicum of modesty. She felt the heat rising in her cheeks and tried to change the subject. Though, no one was actually saying anything. "I-I'm really sorry. I couldn't find the light switch and needed a drink of water—"

"So you used a teacup?"

"It was the first dish I found that had the capability of holding liquid."

Sherlock finished picking up the last remnants of the broken cup and emptied his dustpan into the trash. He set both the broom and dustpan aside and turned hesitantly towards Molly, trying to keep his eyes focused solely on her face. But what he observed was heart-wrenching. Her eyes were puffy and red, her cheeks were tear-stained and smudged with the mascara she missed while wiping her face with the back of her sleeve. He had seen her cry earlier, but he knew to garner that kind of puffiness around the eyes took a great deal of sobbing.

"Here." Sherlock said as he reached up into the cupboard and grabbed a tall glass. "Use this."

Molly grabbed the glass from his hand, brushing against Sherlock's fingertips as he released his grip…his touch, instead, gripping her insides. "Thank you. Again." Molly walked to the sink and turned on the faucet, testing the water to make sure it was cool enough to drink.

Sherlock saw the flash of pink again and swallowed, adjusting the growing muscle stirring beneath his trousers. He couldn't find the will power to look away from the curvy smoothness of her legs, and felt the moisture in his mouth evaporate as his insides boiled with…something akin to desire. Molly was usually so modest, leaving most if not all of her limbs to the imagination. But this…this left _nothing_ to his imagination. It was right there. On display. And he was _mesmerized. _Without tearing his eyes away from her, Sherlock reached up to grab a glass for himself.

_Crash!_

Sherlock's trance was interrupted as the glass came crashing down onto his foot. "Damn!" He yelled, feeling it cut into his skin, but refusing to look at the damage. _Don't look. Pain is psychosomatic. Looking will only make the pain worse. _

Molly jumped from the noise and choked on her water, spitting it out as she gasped for air. She coughed to remove the liquid from her lungs, and turned to Sherlock. His eyes were boring into her, which made her flinch noticeably.

"Molly. There is a piece of glass sticking in my foot that I need you to remove. Please." Sherlock said in an overly calm and collected tone.

Molly looked down at Sherlock's feet and sure enough, a large shard of glass was sticking out of his right foot, blood trickling down the sides.

"Where do you keep the first aid kit?" Molly asked, carefully putting down her own glass.

"Underneath the sink."

Molly knew that at this point, any attempts at modesty or decorum were futile. So instead she settled on being grateful she had worn her lacy pink boy shorts today rather than her granny panties. She bent over to open the cupboard, doing her best to point her buttocks _away_ from Sherlock. She saw the green box with the white cross and pulled it out. "Aha! Found it. Could you hand me the broom, please? I think I should try and clean up this glass around our feet first." Molly said as she reached her upper body forward. .

Sherlock carefully grabbed the broom and dustpan sitting on the table and passed them to Molly, his movements very slow and deliberate. She grabbed them from his hands and squatted down to sweep up the tiny bits of glass, inching her way forward as she paved a safe route to where he stood.

"There. I think we're all clear." She emptied the dustpan into the trash and grabbed the first aid kit, removing the supplies she needed, including a rubber band she used to tie her hair into a ponytail, and then returned to the sink to wash her hands. "I'm sure you've already done this, but try and keep all of your weight on your left foot." Molly slipped the gloves onto her hands and knelt in front of Sherlock. "Now hold very, very still."

Sherlock felt her sanitize the area, still refusing to look down…until the sharp stab of pain made him reflexively look at the source. Molly was still working away at the wound, but a different view caught his attention, making him feel like a voyeuristic pervert. The front of Molly's (or Sherlock's, rather) pajama top had fallen _very _much open, and peeking through the top, looking up at him, were Molly's very perky, very firm, very _perfect _breasts with _very_ pink nipples. His boxers became uncomfortably tight as the muscle beneath them stiffened down his leg. He was surprised any blood was making its way to his foot at all, as he was certain it was all taking up residence in his cock.

Molly finished putting the butterfly bandages on his foot and covered it with another bandage. "This will most certainly need stitches, so I suggest in the morning we head over to St. Bart's so I can administer them. This'll do for now, though."

Molly removed her gloves and started getting up, struggling as she realized her feet had fallen asleep. She fell slightly forward and used Sherlock's legs as leverage to steady herself, hearing him groan as a result. "Sorry!" She said, remembering his injury. At such close proximity, she couldn't help but notice a very _distinct_ outline running down the inside of his pants, and her mind rushed through possible explanations of _why. _Surely he couldn't be aroused by…her…could he? The very thought caused her center to flutter and pulsate, shooting ripples through her stomach and down her leg. A flush crept up her cheeks as she fought the desire to reach out and touch him. Touch _it_.

When Sherlock reached down to help her up, she realized she was staring at…it… and mentally kicked herself for being so obvious (she was never one to be _debonair_ or _subtle_).She grabbed his hands and was brought swiftly to a standing position, causing her body to fall into him from the momentum. The blood rushed to her feet, creating the sensation of pins and needles poking them relentlessly.

Sherlock steadied her, but Molly refused to look at him. She was mortified of what she was _sure_ he just witnessed. But he wasn't letting go of her hands. _Why wasn't he letting go of her hands?_ She looked up at him hesitantly with just her eyes and saw him gazing at her, the usual cool icy irises now appearing gray and stormy as he looked at her. His jaw was twitching as he visibly clenched and unclenched its muscles. His eyes flitted from her mouth to her eyes, to her mouth to her eyes. And she could tell he was holding back. _Sherlock was holding back. But _what _was he holding back? _

He inched closer to her, bringing his hand up to place a stray lock of hair behind her ear, his fingers lingering on the end, massaging the softness between his thumb and forefinger. But his eyes, his eyes never left her face. Molly's mind was racing a million miles an hour as she tried to keep up with the sensations coursing through every vein, every _nerve_ in her body. And when he leaned his face towards her, she was absolutely sure she was going to implode. But she closed her eyes and parted her lips, readying herself for this moment. _This moment. It was here. She had waited. Waited SO long for this…_

…and when she felt his lips against her cheek, it was as if the orchestra of excited anticipation went sharp and died within her very soul.

"Thank you, Molly Hooper. Good night."

And when she opened her eyes, he was gone.

….

"Hi, this is Molly Hooper, just calling to let you know that I won't be coming in today. I think I've come down with the flu. Anyway, if you need me, feel free to call me on my cell. Thank you!"

Molly hung up, wondering if she had been too cheerful sounding for a sick person, but her attention was quickly diverted as she looked at the taunting red "13" next to the phone icon on her screen. _I just need to get this over with. _She thought to herself. She tapped the phone icon and braced herself for the first voicemail.

October 17th, 11:21 PM: "Molly, it's Tom. (deep sigh) Look, I know things have been…awkward. And I know I've been an ass. It's just...how do you think it makes me feel when _he_ hangs around at your work all day, ya know? And I know, I know, I work with my ex-girlfriend and we're still good friends…but my _point _is…it's just…he's Sherlock bloody Holmes! He's famous and smart and…and…anyway. Call me back when you get this. We need to talk."

October 17th, 11:28 PM: "Molly, I love you. God, I love you. Please. You can't just leave me like this ON OUR ANNIVERSARY. Come back so we can finish our night. I promise I won't bring him up again. I _promise. _Please. Call me back."

October 17th, 11:32 PM: "It's Tom again. You're not calling me back. Look, I know you're upset. And I don't blame you. But is this really necessary? I mean, we've _announced _our engagement to everyone. Do you really want to suffer the embarrassment of having to tell them it's broken off? I really think we can work this out. You're worth it to me. Am I worth it to you, Molly? Am I fucking _worth _it to you? I'm willing to forgive you if you're willing to forgive me. We can FIX this. It doesn't have to be over. Please, my love, call me."

Molly wiped away a tear that escaped her eye. Here she was, at another man's house, looking at his erection, and _wanting _to be kissed by him, while there was this other man who _loved_ her and wanted to be with her. The guilt ate away at her insides, but she continued with the torturous voicemails.

October 17th, 11:46 PM: "(laughing) Okay okay okay ,you're not calling me back. You must _really_ be upset. Molly. My love. I'm at St. Bart's. Let me up. Please? I know you're here. We need to talk. Please, just call me back!"

Molly's stomach felt sick. _He was at St. Bart's?_

October 17th, 11:51 PM: "Molly, I'm still here. I _know_ you're up there. Just let me in, okay? I promise I'll be better. I won't be upset with you for not calling me back before. I swear. Forgive and forget, right? Can you forgive me, Molly? If I can forgive you? Just let me in."

Molly's insides turned, she had never seen Tom act this way before. Then again, they had never broken up before…

October 18th, 12:01 am: "FUCK YOU, MOLLY! YOU FUCKING CUNT! DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW LUCKY YOU ARE TO BE WITH A MAN LIKE ME!? HUH?! WHO'S GOING TO LOVE YOU IF I DON'T LOVE YOU, MOLLY?! WHO?! NO ONE?! NO ONE WILL! BUT I GUESS THAT'S WHAT YOU WANT! TO BE FUCKING ALONE! WELL GOOD LUCK, BECAUSE THIS WILL BE THE LAST TIME I EVER FUCKING TALK TO YOU!"

Molly went numb. Tom had NEVER yelled at her before. Ever. It's like he wasn't even the same person.

But she still had 7 voicemails to listen to.

October 18th, 1:04 am: "Molleeeeeeeeeee…I'm rilly, RILLY sooorrrry. You, you're BEAUtiful, annnnnnd I…I am an AAAAAASSSSSSS." Tom said in a sing-song voice. "I, I've had this ENTIRE bolltle of wine ALL by myself (hiccup). And now I'm BAAAAAAACK. I don't. even. know if you're RILLY heeeere. St. Bart's. (snicker). But I have often waaaaaaaaalked on these streets befooooooore (continued singing an off-key rendition of My Fair Lady's On the Streets Where You Live)."

Fear gripped Molly's chest. _Only 6 voicemails left_, she told herself. She NEEDED to hear what he was doing…or where he was.

October 18th, 1:42 am: "I fucking KNEW you were cheating on me, you cunt. Didn't take very long for you to start sucking his cock then, eh? Well, you can tell your new _boy_friend I WON'T be leaving you alone. Not now. Not ever. And he better watch his fucking back, because now I'm _angry_."

_Boyfriend? Did Sherlock…did he talk to Tom? And he seemed incredibly sober for someone who was slurring his speech just 40 minutes before…_

October 18th, 1:45 am: "Was it bigger than mine? Huh? Did you enjoy feeling his _seed_ inside of you? Is he a better _lover _than me, Molly? Did you make that whimpering noise as you were coming? _OOOO, Sherlock, fuck me! Fuck me! _I'm telling you right now, Molly, I don't give a shit that you're fucking him, because I'm NOT done with you. WE. ARE. NOT. DONE. Do you hear me? IT'S NOT OVER UNTIL I SAY SO!"

October 18th, 1:47 am: "_Mmmmm….Sherlock, my fucking hero! Fuck me fuck me fuck me! Ooooo, it's mine and Tom's anniversary, I'm going to break his fucking heart and you're going to fuck me good! _Is this why you're not answering, Molly? Because you're giving your white knight a good fucking? WELL GUESS WHAT SHERLOCK! I'M STILL HERE! COME AND GET ME YOU ASS HOLE! I'M NOT AFRAID OF YOU! REMOVE YOUR DICK FROM MY FIANCEE'S CUNT SO YOU CAN FIGHT ME LIKE A MAN!"

Molly could barely make out the last part of the message as he was yelling at the top of his lungs _directly_ into the speaker. 3 voicemails to go.

October 18th, 2:27 am: "Your boyfriend punches like a pussy. Barely felt a thing. Nice to know you're okay with resorting to violence, though. Cunt."

_Sherlock punched Tom? So he knew he was there the whole time…and didn't tell her?_

October 18th, 3:23 am: "(laughing) I saw you leave with him. Do you even realize what you've done, Molly? Do you? No, I don't think you do. But you will. You will know. And then…you'll be sorry."

October 18th, 5:15 am: "I guess you didn't come back to our place. Didn't even feel you needed a change of clothes, eh? Probably prancing around naked anyway. Fine. Max misses you, though. Don't you, Max! Don't you boy! Too bad your mum is too much of a slut to come say goodbye! (lingering pause) Next stop, 221B Baker Street. Better get your panties back on. _I'm coming for you._"


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's note: First and foremost, I'd like to thank each and every one of you for your lovely words, support, and patience as I wrote this next chapter. I really hope you like it, and as always, reviews are greatly appreciated, even if it's to give constructive criticism. I want to strengthen as a writer, so knowing where I shine and knowing where I fall flat is a good way of tearing into my writing muscles to make them stronger. **

**I also want to thank my beta writer, Other Sam. She has been so helpful and amazing, and I really feel as though I've found a friend through all of this, which aren't so easy to come by. :) **

**Reminder that this is rated -M-, so if you're sensitive to sex, swearing, or violence, turn back now. **

**Enjoy!**

**...**

Sherlock hobbled to his room, quickly distancing himself from the kitchen …where he had almost kissed Molly. Voluntarily. And for no reason other than he wanted to. He wanted to kiss her. He was becoming a victim of his own sexual desires and didn't like feeling so—so out of control.

He needed a case. That was it. He hadn't had a case in over a month. Sherlock hopped onto his bed, grabbed his laptop from the bedside table, and logged into his email.

_Dear Sherlock, I'm sure you get these kinds of request all the time—_

"Affair." Delete.

_Dearest Sherlock, my gran let the cat out—_

"Boring." Delete. He continued down the list. "Affair. Boring. Closet homosexual. Affair. Affair. _Nudes_-" Sherlock scanned over them momentarily "-boring." Delete. Delete. Delete. Delete. Delete. Delete.

Sherlock shut the lid to his laptop with a frustrated sigh. It's not that he wasn't being flooded with requests for his services (all of those cases came within the last 24 hours); it was that they were all mind numbingly dull. He hadn't received anything bigger than a 3 in ages. Though, he wondered if his internal meter to "rank" cases had been skewed due to the intensity of his work while abroad. Everything seemed completely ordinary compared to the thrill of saving nations, political scandals, being chased after the Russian mafia…the torture, the solitude, the terror of never knowing when you'd taken your last breath.

Recalling the memories caused Sherlock's insides to twist uncomfortably, which he hated himself for. He quickly reminded himself that even the strongest person wouldn't come out unscathed if they'd endured what he did for two years, and a lesser person wouldn't have survived. What he was able to accomplish was remarkable and _necessary_.

He was tortured to the brink of death, starved, and utterly alone. The first two were easy enough to tolerate. But the solitude...

While solving cases, Sherlock could spend days on his own with no problem, living in his mind palace to sort through the evidence and solve crimes. But it was always on _his _terms; he could rejoin society at the moment he was ready.

Not so when you were being kept in a dark, suffocating, odious basement with nothing but moldy bread and dirty water to drink. You were forced into seclusion; not knowing how many days would pass until you came into contact with another human being. He found himself yearning for even his torturers to keep him company, because at least getting the bloody pulp beaten out of him was more bearable than being alone with his own thoughts. It also gave him something to do, someone to _deduce_.

Yes, all of that was better than the loneliness. Thoughts, average human thoughts, would creep into his mind, and he eventually became powerless to stop them. It's true what they say (whoever _they _are); when faced with your greatest obstacles, you come to know who you truly are. For Sherlock, that obstacle was being face to face with himself.

And those "average human thoughts" did a number on him. He started asking himself things like, why he never opened himself up to love. Was sentiment really all that bad? Was there more to it than just nature's way of propagating the species? What would be so regrettable about letting himself give into his primordial purpose of existence? And wasn't he doing this all forsentimental reasons anyway? It didn't make him less of a person because he cared about John, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade…and Molly, did it?

Molly…this realization was the most surprising to him of all. He _cared _for her. Immensely. And he remembered the moment it hit him: she asked if he was okay; a question that was all too rare in his life, at no fault of anyone else's (he always acted impervious to petty emotions). But she saw right through to his very core and knew, when no one else did, that he was _not _okay. When he asked her for help, she had every reason to doubt him, every reason to hate him, and every reason to tell him to sod off, but Molly Hooper—_Molly Hooper_ helped him without questioning him. She was a loyal friend. And he would never forget her for being one of the few people who had faith in him when everyone else's wavered.

True to his word, he didn't forget her.

And in those dark moments of ordinary emotions, he imagined what a normal existence would look like for him. And in his normal existence, Molly Hooper was there being normal with him…but as soon as he regained consciousness and control of his mental capacities, he would give himself a mental beating for having such trivial feelings while he was on his last leg. How completely and utterly useless.

But now he was home. He was home and everything had changed. _He_ had changed, no matter how hard he tried to fight against it. He was not the Sherlock Holmes everyone knew before, and the most challenging problem he faced was he didn't know how to reconcile the previous Sherlock Holmes with the new Sherlock Holmes. It felt like a constant internal struggle.

And now Molly was living with him. In his flat. And he had almost bloody kissed her. He didn't want to _just_ kiss her, was his problem. He wanted to do unspeakable, _ordinary, testosterone-driven acts _to her.

But she had just gotten out of a relationship, for god's sake. He knew that post-relationship rationality was almost non-existent; therefore, even if he _were_ to foolishly give into his primal instincts, he wanted to make sure Molly was of sound mind. And not thinking of that dithering idiot.

_Oh for fuck's sake, why does it matter if she's thinking of him? It's purely sexual. I just want Molly's breasts in my mouth and her hand on my-_

_Meat dagger? Really? God, what _is it _like in his vacant brain?_

But it probably hadn't even been 24 hours since Molly last kissed Tom. And for some reason, the idea of Tom still seasoning her lips caused his stomach to churn, but not nearly as much as when that psychopath showed up at St. Bart's .

Sherlock had been on his way out the door, respecting Molly's wishes, when he heard someone yelling Molly's name and singing. Loudly. And off-key. As he approached the man, recognizing him as Tom (Molly's fiancé), he quickly and assuredly deduced the falling out between the two. The only question, the one Sherlock found incredibly important (for reasons he would explore in his mind palace later on) was who had ended it.

Sherlock tried to be diplomatic with the man, but Tom just wasn't taking no for an answer. He couldn't care less that Tom was calling him names, he could even excuse the failed attempts at punching Sherlock in the face…or anywhere, for that matter (not for lack of trying). But the moment Tom called Molly a whore and spewed outrageous accusations regarding supposed intercourse between her and Sherlock, all manner of diplomacy was forgotten. He didn't punch him **-**that hard. Yes, he was unconscious, but Sherlock had safely placed him in the bushes, out of harm's way.

There was one thing about Tom that kept nagging at Sherlock, though. One thing that really stood out during their altercations he found very peculiar; Tom was acting inebriated with an empty wine bottle in his hand. Why would someone act drunk? Sympathy? Manipulation? Boredom? The ridiculous notion that you were excused from your actions if you had too much to drink? And on that same wave of thought, pretending like you don't remember anything that happened the night before?

Sherlock pondered the possibilities as he waited for Molly in her office. He couldn't leave her alone knowing that lunatic was on her doorstep. He needed to make sure she made it home safely. Chances were she probably wouldn't be returning to the flat she and Tom shared. So where would she be staying?

The only solution that made logical sense to Sherlock was for Molly to take up residence at his place. He had the extra bedroom. He wouldn't mind the company. Maybe Molly would even be willing to do some shopping. Ever since he'd been back, his refrigerator had been disappointingly empty. John had always managed to keep some supplies around that Sherlock nicked at every possible opportunity. It'd definitely be a nice change to have real food about (when he finally decided it was time to eat something). But this way, and possibly most importantly, he could make sure Tom didn't give Molly any more trouble. He owed her that much.

What he hadn't counted on was how beautiful and elegant she looked as she walked out of the bathroom in that dress with her hair flowing down her shoulders. He often forgot how very feminine Molly's features were, with her petite frame, button nose, doe-y brown eyes, delicate jawline, and long, soft hair that draped over her neck…her perfectly long, delicious neck…her lacy pink underwear that accentuated her backside perfectly, her perky breasts with the perfectly pink nipples…her long, smooth, shapely legs that would fit perfectly, wrapped around his waist…

Sherlock felt the length of his member stretch down his leg as he thought of Molly tangled in his bed sheets with him…sucking on her perfect nipples, causing them to harden as he licked and blew cool air over their surface. Trailing kisses down her abdomen as he ran his hands up and down her legs, slowly maneuvering them up her inner thighs, stopping right before the center of pleasure nestled between her moistened lips….

_Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck._ This couldn't be happening. Old Sherlock would have never let it get this far. New Sherlock was a _bloody idiot_. Pure and simple. Bloody. Idiot.

Sherlock opened his laptop again and checked his email. No new messages. He returned to his computer's desktop and read through the contents.

"Ash Properties, John's Water Usage, John's Shampoo Usage, Rate of Hair Growth, aha!" Sherlock said excitedly. He clicked on the Excel spreadsheet labeled "Healing timetables of the human body" and entered the information on his foot injury, how deep the injury was, methods used to aid the injury, _Molly's breasts as she bent down to clean the wound_.

"Urrrggh!" He growled, his raging hard-on unrelenting as it strained against his boxers on the verge of explosion. He quickly saved the spreadsheet and clicked on his web browser. He had The Times saved as his homepage, and not for the news articles, but for the puzzles. He rubbed his hands together eagerly as he clicked on the link to the crossword puzzle.

"Where Minos reigned…" Sherlock looked at the clue, brows furrowed. "Where. Minos. Reigned." This was the FIRST clue. This was easy. _He knew this._Sure, he could swallow his pride and just Google the answer, but what was the fun in that?

Sherlock closed his eyes and opened the front doors to his palace, walking towards the door labeled "Useless historical information that will only come in handy whilst doing crossword puzzles". He smiled and opened the door…to Molly's lacy underwear staring back at him as she bent over searching through his files.

"The answer is Crete, Sherlock. _Do _get it together, will you?" Mind Palace Molly stood up slowly and turned towards him. "Or better yet, _do me_." She began walking towards him as she deliberately began unbuttoning her top.

"WHY ARE YOU EVERYWHERE!?" Sherlock yelled, his hands pulling at his hair in frustration.

"Because, Sherlock…you _want_ me everywhere, don't you?" Her top came off, revealing her breasts as she ran her hands down his chest, slipping beneath his trousers as she grabbed hold of his…

He quickly opened his eyes and stared at the computer screen in front of him, his breath hitching as he typed (more like jabbed) "Crete" slowly into 1 across. His laptop moved with every stroke of a key, causing it to rub against the iron rod straining below it.

Sherlock's eyes rolled into the back of his head as pleasure shot through his middle and down his legs. He could feel the wetness from his pre-cum dripping down his inner thighs, and knew this was going to be a losing battle.

He put his laptop aside and placed a hand over his bulge, stroking it ever so gently as the air from his lungs hissed through his teeth.

This…this was a mind-numbing activity only for the small-minded and weak-willed…_just go and take a cold shower, Sherlock. Flick it. Do whatever it is you need to do to make this wretched thing go away. _

He could take a cold shower...or he could succumb to the release his body so painfully demanded of him. Right. The latter sounded good. And it's not as if he did this often enough to feel _ashamed _about it. In fact, when comparing himself to the average 30-something year old, even after this _one time, _he would still be statistically superior to 99.9% of them.

It was final, then.

Sherlock unzipped his pants, trying to fish out his stiffened muscle through the open flap, but his cock was too hard and unyielding. This would require removing his trousers completely.

He quickly undid his belt buckle and battled with the button on his pants, finally rewarded with release from the prison of his knickers as he slid his clothes down to his ankles. His manhood sprang forth to life, sticking straight out, and he wasted no time gripping its length, using the pre-cum as lubrication, and stroking it as he imagined slipping inside of his petite pathologist, mimicking the thrusting movements with each stroke of his hand. His pace quickened as he neared the edge of release, imagining Molly desperately calling his name as she came…

"Sherlock!" Molly yelled desperately, pounding on his bedroom door. Sherlock stopped mid-stroke, pursing his lips as he groaned in frustration at hearing Molly call out to him. He considered pretending like he didn't hear her so he could finish, but was quickly interrupted by another desperate knock on his door. He took a deep breath, stood up from his bed and pulled up his pants, careful not to pinch the still throbbing muscle as he zipped up and buckled his belt. He opened his bedroom door, sounding more irritated than he intended to.

"What _is it_, Molly?"

She was out of breath, her doe-y brown eyes were wide with terror, her face was pale as a white sheet, and she struggled with her words. "Sh-Sherlock—T-Tom. He's, he's coming for me. Here, listen." Molly had him listen to the last voicemail left by Tom.

Sherlock glared, a look of pure malice on his face as he listened to Meat Dagger's disparaging remarks towards Molly. This, this, was inexcusable.

"Have you called the police, yet?" Sherlock's usual baritone voice had dropped into a raspy bass as he asked Molly the question.

"N-no, I came straight here." Molly sat on Sherlock's bed, pulling her knees to her chest and laying her head down on them.

"Hand me your phone." Sherlock said, reaching his hand out towards Molly without looking at her. "He left the message at 5:15, and if he was, in fact, at your place when he made this call, it would take him 22 minutes to get here by train, and 18 minutes by taxi. It is currently 5:27, giving us at least 6 minutes." Sherlock dialed 9-9-9 on Molly's keypad. "Yes, we need the police at 221B Baker Street right away; there has been a threat to my…roommate's life…"

Molly's heart began racing what felt like a million miles a minute, the room felt like the air had been sucked out of it as she fought to breathe oxygen into her lungs, her hands were trembling and numbing and her head felt like a cloud. "Sh-Sherlock." Molly said, barely audibly, reaching out for Sherlock's hand.

Sherlock walked out of reach as he continued to talk on the phone, oblivious to the feeble hands reaching for him. "…her ex-fiancé called her and threatened her life, Lestrade, you need to be here now."

Her vision started going black, so she quickly moved her legs so they were dangling off the side of Sherlock's bed, ducked her head in between them, trying to stave off the vertigo, but felt herself continuing forward…

Sherlock hung up the phone. "The police will be here any minute, I also called Lestrade and told him to meet us—" as he turned around, he noticed the crumpled form of Molly beside his bed. He ran to her and turned her onto her back, checking to see if she was breathing (_very faintly_), then he felt her pulse (_beating rapidly_). _She passed out from hyperventilating. Most likely a panic attack. She would be fine. _"Molly" he lightly tapped her face. "Molly, time to get up now, the police are on their way."

Molly fluttered her eyes open. "Am I dreaming? Was this all a dream?"

"Of course not, Molly, you are at 221B Baker Street, and the police are on their way."

"So…not a dream, then. I think I'll just go back to sleep and wait for it all to be over. Good night, Sherlock." Molly closed her eyes.

"Molly!" Sherlock shook her body violently, only causing her to groan and roll over. "Oh for god's sake…" Sherlock relented, then scooped her up and laid her on his bed, covering her up with his blanket. He saw the lights from the police cars coming from the hallway and checked Molly's vitals again, just to be sure she was okay before meeting the police (everything's normal).

Lestrade was the first one through the door. "Is he here?" He asked Sherlock.

"Not yet, or at least, not that we know of." Sherlock said, limping up the steps as he lead Lestrade and the 2 policemen to his flat.

"What's with the limp?" Lestrade asked.

"An experiment with gravity, glass and my foot."

Lestrade decided not to press further. "So, Molly is your new roommate, eh? How long has that been going on?" He asked as they walked into Sherlock's living room.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "If you must know, she's only been here since this morning, about 2 hours ago."

"Huh…so, you two—"

Sherlock turned to look Lestrade in the eyes, his face oozing with impatience. "Glen."

"Greg."

"Greg. Whatever. Let's focus on the problem at hand, shall we? Molly broke things off with Tom last night and he has turned into what can only be described as a raging psychopath." He pulled out Molly's phone. "Just listen to these-" Sherlock's brows furrowed as he looked at the screen.

The Apple symbol displayed itself against a black background with a loading bar underneath. "What's it doing?" Sherlock asked Lestrade as he showed him the screen.

"Shit!" Lestrade said. "If it's doing what I think it's doing, I'm pretty sure it's being wiped remotely. I've seen this happen before with phones we took in as evidence. We learned quickly from that mistake."

"Well how do I stop it from wiping?!" Sherlock asked desperately.

"You can't."

"What do you mean I can't?" Sherlock fiddled with all of the buttons, trying to make it do something. As soon as a gray background appeared with numerous languages flashing on the unlock bar, he said "you see? I knew I could do something."

"Oh fucking hell." Lestrade said, grabbing the phone from Sherlock's hand. "This is...it's the setup screen, Sherlock. It's been wiped. Completely. Molly didn't back up her phone in the last hour, did she?"

Sherlock stared at him blankly. "All of her stuff is at Tom's."

"Sherlock, you realize there's nothing I can do without physical evidence of a threat, right?"

"But I'm telling you right now, Lestrade, I heard everything. Molly and I, we both heard the voicemails. They were there, and he was threatening our lives."

"Are you sure it wasn't just him being upset over the break up? I mean, that happens, right? Especially when you get sloshed—"

"You think it's normal to call up an ex and say that you're 'coming to get them'?" Sherlock raised his brows incredulously at Lestrade. "Now who's the psychopath? Besides. He wasn't sloshed, as you put it. He was completely sober."

"Wait, how do you know?"

"I saw him outside of St. Bart's. We got into a bit of a tussle."

"A tussle? What kind of tussle?"

"He called Molly colorful names. I shut him up. That's all you need to know."

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Oh for Christ's sake…Sherlock, no wonder he wanted to come for you. His woman just broke up with him and there you were, rubbing salt in the wounds. I'm not saying it was right for him to threaten, but I can imagine being upset."

"He was not just simply upset, Lestrade. He was menacing. I haven't heard anyone like that since…" Sherlock's brows furrowed and his eyes squinted. "…since Moriarty."

"Moriarty?"

"Is there an echo in this room?" Sherlock mocked. "Yes, MORIARTY."

"I believe you, Sherlock. I really do. I just—" Lestrade bit his tongue.

"You. Just. What?" Sherlock asked, trying to read Lestrade's face. "You think that because I have no experience in having relationships that I wouldn't know how a person acts when said relationship ends?"

"Well…yeah."

"Wrong. I know more about relationships than most of the people in them, which is why I choose not to involve myself with sentiment. And I'm telling you, he was acting more nefarious than your average jealous ex-boyfriend. I'm not sure why you're questioning me, Lestrade, when you know very well that I'm the best damn detective you've EVER had the pleasure of working with."

Lestrade conceded to his point. "Like I said, I believe you. Unfortunately there's not a ton I can do without the evidence."

"Pull his phone records."

"And what? We can see how many times he called Molly? All that proves is he was desperate, nothing more. Trust me, I've been through this legal process before. Unless we have those voicemails, there's nothing we can do. I can ensure it's put on the radar, but I can't actually charge or arrest for stalking unless I have something concrete. In fact, all we know for sure at this point is that YOU punched HIM."

Sherlock clenched his fists as his face turned red. "Fine. I will gather the needed evidence."

"I'm really sorry, Sherlock. After your death…they've been watching me more closely. I can't make any mistakes. And if I'm going to continue helping you, as I said before, I need something more concrete here. I'll tell you what, I will send someone out to his place to check in."

Sherlock stared at Lestrade expressionless, causing him to avert his eyes uncomfortably, scratching the back of his neck, letting it linger there. "I know it's not good enough. I know that. We'll check around here, and I'll call my men to check in over there, all right? It's the best I can do. For now."

"Fine. I'll search my room. You search elsewhere." Sherlock said tersely, returning to his bedroom where Molly resided. He opened the door gently, careful not to startle her. "Molly?" He whispered, poking his head in to assess her current state. His heart stopped upon finding his bed was empty. He frantically searched around the bed and underneath the covers to see if she was tucked away somewhere. "Molly?!" He said desperately louder.

Relief washed over him as he heard a flush of a toilet come from his bathroom followed by water pouring from the faucet. He sat on his bed and waited for her to finish, steepling his fingers below his chin as he calmed his racing heartbeat.

Molly exited the restroom, jumping at the sight of Sherlock's sudden appearance. "Sherlock, you frightened me."

Sherlock took a deep breath and hopped up from his bed, wincing from the pain as he remembered his injury, and said nonchalantly "It appears as though your psychopathic ex-fiancé has wiped out the information from your iPhone completely, erasing all evidence of his threats towards you."

Molly's heart sank into her stomach, her mouth dropped open as she stared at Sherlock disbelievingly. "W-what? But—but how?" Her legs felt as though they couldn't support her weight any longer, so she slowly walked towards Sherlock's bed and took a seat next to where he stood

"Remote wiping. Heard of it?"

"No."

"Well, that's what he did. Probably from your laptop at the apartment you shared with him."

"So—so the police…they can't do anything, can they." Molly stated, more than asked, in a disheartened tone.

"They're checking around this apartment complex, and Lestrade has called a few of his men over to yours and Tom's place to check in there. I'm sorry, Molly. Without the voicemails—"

"They'd have no reason for his arrest. I get it." Molly looked up at Sherlock, deflated, tears forming in her eyes. "Sherlock, I—I don't know what to do. I don't understand why this is happening to me. Why do I always seem to attract the criminally insane? What have I done to deserve this hell?" She looked down at her hands folded in her lap, her lip trembling as she fought back the lump forming in her throat.

Sherlock sat on his haunches in front of her, and hesitantly put his hand on top of Molly's, knowing this is what you did when someone was upset…touch was comforting. "Molly. Molly look at me." She listened, a tear drop falling down her cheek as she met his gaze. "I will NOT let anything happen to you, do you understand? Tom will not harm you. He won't harm you because I will not let him. You are safe here. You are safe with me. I promise." Molly put her head into her hands and started sobbing uncontrollably; a river of tears fell down her cheeks and dripped onto her bare legs, creating wet trails as they pooled between her thighs.

Sherlock found it hard to swallow, feeling an ache in his chest as he watched Molly cry. He was helpless to the trembling figure before him, unsure of how to proceed or how to make it better. He thought he was comforting her by saying all of those things, but here she was, crying even more than before. He was obviously god awful at this. Think, Sherlock, think! What do you do when someone cries? What do THEY do when someone cries?

"Oh!" He said aloud, and pulled Molly into his chest, holding her head against him as she sobbed. Her hands wrapped around his back, holding onto his shirt tightly as the tears soaked through his fabric. "There there, Molly." He said, stroking her hair. Somehow…this was making him feel better, too, the ache in his chest subsiding as her crying reduced to tiny whimpers and the occasional sniffle. She was actually comforted by this. Hell, he was comforted by this. And yet, she didn't let him go…and he didn't want her to. She smelled like violets and strawberries, fresh and sweet. It was intoxicating. How could anyone smell this good? He laid his head onto hers, inhaling slowly, so as not to let on that he was, in fact, smelling her.

"Thank you, Sherlock." Molly said into his chest, holding onto him more tightly.

"Hmmm?" Sherlock responded as he lifted his head for a moment, his mind only just processing what she had said. "Oh right, of course." He returned his head to its original position, resting atop hers.

They stayed like that until Sherlock was awoken from his olfactory trance by footsteps approaching his bedroom. He quickly released her and covered her bare legs with his blanket. He cleared his throat and gave his arms a quick shake, as if trying to loosen his nerves.

Lestrade poked his head through Sherlock's bedroom door. "Sherlock?"

"All's good in here, Lestrade. No intruders, just Molly and myself." Sherlock said, almost too quickly.

Lestrade looked from Molly to Sherlock, one eyebrow raised. "Right. Molly, you okay?"

"Fine, Greg. Thank you." She said, pulling the blanket more tightly around her legs.

"Do you need anything? Coffee? Tea? Water?" Lestrade asked.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. This was his apartment, Lestrade had no business offering his guests a damn thing. And by the expectant look on Lestrade's face, he could tell he was just cajoling Molly, trying to get into her good graces. This was neither the time nor the place.

"Actually, tea would be—" Molly started.

"She's fine, Lestrade. I can take it from here, thank you." Sherlock interrupted. "Now, I'll walk you out."

Sherlock shut his bedroom door behind him and walked towards the staircase, Lestrade and his 2 policemen following close behind. "So, anything?" Sherlock inquired, descending the stairs.

"My men searched your apartment, around the apartment, knocked on your neighbor's doors to ask if they could search their places. Everyone was cooperative, but Tom was nowhere to be found."

"And what about Tom's place."

"I have a few of my men heading over there now. They had a domestic disturbance before the call they had to finish up. I just need Molly to sign this document to allow us to search her apartment if Tom doesn't answer the door."

"Done. I'll have her sign off on this right now." Sherlock headed back up the stairs, reading over the document, when he heard an ear-piercing scream coming from his apartment. "Molly!" he yelled, taking the stairs by three as he rushed to his flat, not caring about the throbbing pain in his foot.

"Sherlock!"

She was in John's old bedroom. Sherlock was there within seconds, rushing to Molly's side as he drank in the scene before him.

"I—I came in here to grab my purse and—and—" Molly couldn't finish her sentence. She didn't NEED to. Because it was spray painted in red all over the walls and sheets.

CUNT, WHORE, BITCH, SLUT, FUCK YOU.

But there was one sentence written on the bed sheets that made Sherlock's stomach churn more than the others.

**You are NOT safe ****here. ****You are NOT safe with him. I PROMISE.**

Sherlock heard Lestrade's footsteps approach and enter the room behind him, followed by a barely audible "Deeeeear Christ…"

With eyes trained on the stained sheets Sherlock's deep voice slowly asked, "Is this evidence enough for you?"


End file.
